FFM XShe has more books than friends. Even on her Facebook account.
Eleven are duplicated, four are autographed, nine are missing covers, and six are in languages she doesn't speak.
(Her books, not the friends, but one never knows.)
She's worked the same job for three years, saying that it will get her to bigger and better places. It took her three years to figure out that she can't see any places, let alone bigger or better ones.
She writes stories about sad little people like her, except she didn't realize that she was like all of them. She was different because she liked her job. She liked her job until she realized she didn't. And then she couldn't think of anything that set her apart.
She has more books than friends, and she collects them the way one might collect loose change. (Again, the books, not the friends.) She hasn't read all of them, and she doesn't even know that she will. She gathered them all up in order to make herself manic-pixie-dream-girl.
But now, she's a depressive-pi
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.The Doctor in Short Stories More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquisitively.
"It's one of her emotions. This doesn't attack the same way that normal diseases do, there are all sorts of different symptoms. Right now, she is sad and the only way that I know how to explain it is that she is feeling down."
"What do you mean by down?"
"Her emotions can best be described as ones that are upwhen she is feeling good, and
The Man in the Coffee ShopThe man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.The Man in the Coffee Shop in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.
Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.
Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hair and scream 'till my lungs burst. I scream for and at you. I ask how you could have left me here.
Sometimes I allow myself to believe that I will see you again. By chance we will run into each other in a Wal-Mart far away.
I go to the coffee shop on Tuesday afternoons. I order a small chai tea with milk.
Sometimes the man is working at th
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.Impressionable in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about getting caught in a gust of wind and tossed down in a field somewhere, but secretly, she hoped for it.
She missed you. She wouldn't admit it, but I could see it in her face and hear it in her words.
She lost her right shoe one night. She walked a half mile in the rain without it and arrived at the front door with a big smile on her face. Sometimes I
I'm Just Waiting for the RainHe keeps his umbrella close, but never opened. Storm clouds roll in and out of his life, but they never stop to even wet the ground.I'm Just Waiting for the Rain in Short Stories More Like This
He wakes up every morning at 6:15, stays in bed for another five minutes, and takes a shower that lasts eight and a half minutes. He eats two slices of buttered toast and a small tumbler of orange juice. He dresses himself in a blue button-down with a striped tie and shines his shoes so that he can see his face. If it's cold out, he wears his black trench coat and if it isn't, he just wears his sport coat. He carries his briefcase every day, along with his umbrella. He can't forget his umbrella. The train leaves at 7:00 and he is at the station by 6:55. He hasn't missed a day of work in eight years.
His career isn't exactly what he hoped it would have been. If he were to think back on it, he would realize that it isn't even close. Thankfully, he never does.
At 7:45 he goes for his morning coffee runblack with two sugars. Provided the line isn't too
FFM XXVIIIf she screams the loudest that means she cares the most. Beneath her weak chest, her heart palpitates and her lungs expand to the point of near eruption. She waves her hands and stomps her feet just like everyone around her, shaking the floor with the weight of a thousand booming steps.FFM XXVII in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Now, if only he would look at her.
FFM II"Dreams are the best liars, they always know exactly what you want."FFM II in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"What makes you say that?" he asks, not looking up from the glow of his phone.
"Last night, I had a dream, and it was raining, storming, with lightning flashing through the sky and thunder booming so hard it shook the floor. I was in a store, one kind of like Walmart, and there were no windows or doors. And if I had thought about it, I would have realized that it was a dream."
"What do you mean?" he says, with the click of his iPhone.
"Well, if there were no windows, I wouldn't have seen the lightning, right?"
"I suppose not," he said.
"But then, I remember I was going through the books and a spider crawled out of the shelf. And I was so scared, it felt so real. You see, dreams know exactly what makes you tick, and they plant that in there so that you believe them," she said standing up from her chair.
"Do you ever think you are just over-analyzing things Mary?"
She shook her head. "Will you hug me?"
2When she gets on the bus at the station and the bus driver steps off for his five minute cigarette break, she feels like the bus has transformed into a room full of kindergarteners who’s teacher has left to get more juice for snack-time. The bus full of white collar commuters are too petrified to do anything. She is sure most of them were the friend in high school that would always tell the group that “you know, we really should get out of here now." But as they nervously look at each other, she knows that their minds are beginning to race with the possibilities, especially when they notice that he has left the keys in the ignition. A rogue bus, holding seven passengers as hostage has left the station, he is not armed, but he might be dangerous.2 in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
3She is drinking a smoothie in Panera Bread at ten o’clock at night when she realizes that she never loved him. She still lets him walk her to the bus stop and laughs when he tells the story he’s told three times before (in his defense, it is funny), and she looks at him the same way she always did. But she feels nothing and even wonders if that was what she always felt.3 in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She felt as if she should love him, after all that they did together, like lovers without the love, telling secrets in the glow of the cell phone, stories that they wouldn’t tell anyone else. They took each other on dates, walks through the park, trips to the art museum, confusing breathlessness and lack of silence for butterflies in the stomach and spending time together because it seemed right. They never know which goodbye will be the last, or if any of them ever will be. She thinks that maybe they will become drifters, exploring their respective corners of the world, but always reporting back, and
Day NineteenI.Day Nineteen in Free Verse More Like This
This building will always
remind me of you.
You left your presence
in its walls and
it creaks like a
I hear you have a
I’ll never know if
it’s a he or she,
and that is surprisingly okay.
You are every cyclist
wearing aviator sunglasses,
which means that I see you,
six times on my way home.
that is the same number
of times that my heart stops
I have a friend with
the same name as you, it
feels weird saying it
I’ve written you
pages of poems,
hoping that your memory
will bleed from my fingers
like a pen
running out of ink.
The results of
this test are
1.1. There are people who do not want an inch less of their fair share of the bus/airplane/movie theater/train/car/park bench/couch and do not hesitate to let everyone know. I do not like to sit in between two people on public transit for fear that I will spill into the space of not one, but two innocent commuters. I make a beeline for corner seats so that I can squish into the extra, empty space and pretend not to see people hesitate before sitting next to me.1. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
2. This extra layer between my skin and bones is like an armor, protecting my organs from the passing glares shot my way, the snickers, and the people I love calling themselves fatass when they eat too much frozen yogurt. My stretch marks are battle scars from the time something almost made it through.
3. When I was ten years old, my mother took me to the store to buy a new swimsuit, we went to seven different stores because we could not find one that was long enough for my five-foot-two frame, when I asked my mother why I could n
I'm coming out: I'm straightMom? Mum? Can I talk to you?I'm coming out: I'm straight in Short Stories More Like This
My voice quivered. Both of them looked up at me. Moms head was in Mums lap. Mum was slowly stroking her forehead, leaning down to kiss her forehead while still staring at me intently. A satanic bible was placed in Mums lap, the thin, withered pages torn in a few places from continued reading. You know you can talk to us about anything, Mom said, smiling, sitting up a bit straighter. She leaned over to kiss Mum, who kissed her back. I took a seat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin, staring down at my cuticles. Even for a guy, they were pretty nasty.
I took a deep breath. Guys? I dont really know how to say this but, I think Im heterosexual.
The room went silent. Mum looked up from our satanic bible and pursed her lips. For a second, I thought she was going to reach out and slap me. In a tight voice, she said, You know how we feel about heterosexuals. We raised you to be
A Teen's Guide to SuicideHey, kids! Now, those of us over here in the government have noticed that the suicide rate has gone up 8% for you teens in the past year. Now, we know that life can be incredibly difficult (what with angsty teen drama, th need for high-end fashion and technology, and oh so difficult classes). Some us in the government believe it or not! actually understand your desire to kill yourself! Yep, that's right! We can relate to you!A Teen's Guide to Suicide in Short Stories More Like This
We remember times in our lives when we thought suicide was the only option. Now, looking at these scores, we realize that we're not the only ones in the country who have thought like this!
Did you know that 2 3 out of every 100,000 females will commit suicide? 11 12 males will commit suicide as well! Those numbers are daunting!
But we also realize another, even more horrifying number there are 308,000,000 people in this country! On top of that, there are 6 billion people in the world. Wow! Those numbers are s
Drowning in Reversex. I still have your phone.Drowning in Reverse in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
ix. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The ferris wheel still rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder.
viii. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here.
vii. It was a cold, white room. I don't know why hospitals are so cold. Or maybe it was just me - maybe it was just me trying to siphon out all of my warmth and channel it into you.
vi. I didn't see the crowd that gathered on the beach - I barely registered the flash of red and blue lights - I only saw you, skin pale as the stretcher they were loading you on to, blue shirt stained black like a death sigil.
v. Someone was drowning. You cast an arm out pointing - there was someone out there in the dark water drifting further and further from shore.
Babydolls and RacecarsDear Rosie,Babydolls and Racecars in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I have your baby doll. Give back my racecar or she gets it.
Don't you dare hurt my dolly. Racecars are stupid anyway.
Baby dolls are stupider. So I threw her off a bridge.
Mommy got me a new baby doll because she loves me more than you. So there.
I don't care. Daddy took me out for ice cream and then we went to the park to play catch.
I don't like ice cream anyway. Mommy takes me shopping for pretty cl
Hollow SuicideI love this world.Hollow Suicide in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I love it even when it's so beautifully achingly lonely that I can feel the drum of my pulse throbbing just under my skin, a constant reminder of the hollow center the veins connect back to.
Sometimes I think I want to build my future in the forest because the trees are so lovely but then I realize that I would be missing out on the vast, limitless blue expanses of oceanwater and the sound of the waves lapping at the shoreline. And then I think of the view from the mountains, or the honey-golden tones of the desert at sunset, the neon lights of the great cities, all the beautiful places in the world I have to choose from, but which one is the most beautiful in the end?
I think about the end of the world, how the forests would burn and the seas would dry up and the mountains would crumble and the cities would fall, and the destruction would still be hauntingly beautiful because it's a reminder of our own impermanence. A gentle memory of that faint
Summer Dreamsi. DaydreamsSummer Dreams in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He slept his summers away. The soft rays of daylight never got their chance to meet his blue eyes, eyes as blue as the sky he never got to see. In his dreams he ran along cobblestone streets permanently bathed in dying twilight and watched the waves crash on white sand.
In his nightmares he stood in the rain and hid from the glare of neon signs advertising trivialities.
ii. The Clocktower
He stood on edges of high places to keep the sun in his eyes for as long as possible. Here he felt close to the sky. Here he could watch all of the faceless passerby.
Here he could feel infinite.
iii. Prelude to Autumn
Summer was life. Summer was light and warmth and being together and all the best things the world had to offer.
He stirred in his dream the summer sun was setting.
iv. Summer Flying
He was falling.
There wasn't enough life in him to flash before his eyes. He was not close to the sky. He was not in
Steam and CedarIt's raining,Steam and Cedar in Free Verse More Like This
and the pitter-patter on the shingles
matches the clackety-clack
from the railroad behind my house.
The train whistles;
my room fills with steam clouds
and the smell of cedar wood.
Or maybe that's the shingles again.
MP - Into LetterMy lovely Mentee(s),MP - Into Letter in Free Verse More Like This
The aura of autumn
lies not in its loveliness,
but in the crunch of dried leaves
shuffled under sneakers
and crushed into dust.
A bite of winter
crept under my coat
and left a wound
in a place I can't reach
and a shard of ice in my heart.
I keep a reminder of spring
in my back pocket.
For when the ice gets too cold
and the winter too long,
I have a way back.
The last sigh of summer
smells like a lungful of sunshine
and cookie dough
just out of the oven
and left to cool on the stovetop.
The death of a year
tastes bittersweet, tart.
Like a cold lemonade,
ice cubes and all,
melting down your throat.
A Language of LightI read the cosmos in my spare time.A Language of Light in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
There's something strangely fascinating about space to me. Explorers look up and see directions, a gigantic cosmic map. Poets look up and see moonlight and dreams. Scientists look up and see mysteries to solve.
I look up and see black holes and infinite loneliness, but also magnificence and beauty. I look up and see the history of the universe stretched out like an open book written in a rare language, a language of light. A language written by stars and bound at the spine by gravity, illustrated by constellations and nebulae. A language I can read, but that only stars can speak.
Black holes are gaps in the story. That's why everything gravitates towards them holes were meant to be filled. There are no main characters: only bit players and one scene wonders that stick around for about a sentence worth of time in the grand scheme of things. A redwood tree would grow and decay in an instant. A human life would play out with barely the blink of a
Bantering"Forget your umbrella?"Bantering in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The teasing note in her voice matched the grin on her face. She opened her pastel blue umbrella and raised it while still under the overhang.
"Where are you parked? I'll walk with you."
He offered a smile back for her cheekiness. Tenured professors don't mind being laughed at on occasion.
"Thank you. I'm just around the building, in the metered lot." Being the taller of the two, he held the umbrella as they set off under the rain.
"Fixing printers, delivering forms... you have a way of showing up when someone needs a bit of help, don't you?" He cocked an eyebrow. She tossed her hair.
"I have a generosity complex. Besides, I can't have my favorite professor melting."
He shuffled the papers he was carrying under one arm and placed the now-free hand over his chest in mock emotion.
"Aw. I'm touched. Really."
"Don't be. I have three classes with you next semester and rescheduling is a bitch."
He laughed at that, a deep hearty sound before retorting back, "I'll rememb
Gallery SpectersThe saddest thing on the internetGallery Specters in Free Verse More Like This
is a vast gallery of potential
now a silent museum
with the occasional visitor
wandering by to marvel
before casually sending a llama
to an artist that isn't there.
The second saddest
is the comment section
of a profile page
whose top comment is a time capsule
to the year 2008,
Conversations with Doc - Part Fouri.Conversations with Doc - Part Four in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
"Just be your usual lovely, kind, smart, wonderful self, and you'll be fine. Leave Bitch Lauren at home tomorrow. Pat the Snarky one on the head and tell her to be good while you’re gone."
“I can’t leave her with you for a few hours?”
“NOOOO, no way!”
“You’re neat, aren’t you? I mean, not compulsively, but you’re organized.”
“I try to be. I go to The Container Store just to look around.”
“Now that’s a line for a story. I’m stealing that line.”
“I won’t time you. I only do that to people that have consistently abused my patience.”
“See what I have to deal with every day? Snipe A and Snipe B right here.
“Just look at all the silver in your hair. I take credit for at least some of those. I bet I made that one right there turn silver.”
"Good luck, Doc."
"Luck? Skill! Intensity! World domination."
UnattainableThose who are lucky enough to have friends are lucky indeed. For not everyone is so lucky.Unattainable in Emotional More Like This
It must be nice to have someone's shoulder to cry on. Someone you can bitch to; someone who'll hold you when you're hurt. Not everyone has someone like that.
Some of us just have friends, only a few, whom we call best friends, but they don't say such things in return do they? No, because we aren't their best friend, we're just a friend. Or worse that weird person they hang out with.
You see they have someone else that they uncover their heart and soul too. Someone they've known since they were children; or someone they met several years ago and became inseparable. I envy them. I envy all of them.
Some of us don't get those people; some of us don't get relied upon. We aren't all so lucky. Some of us are shunned, through no fault of our own, or perhaps through only our own fault. It's a mystery that will always escape me.
How do they do it? How do they make these excellent friends? How do they beco
Do you know the taste of the universe?One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.Do you know the taste of the universe? in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a long time to you, and eventually you sneak a look at the crying man who smells like Portland and loneliness, and he sees you. He leans down until you can see the red lines in his eyes and he whispers to you.
“Do you know the taste of the universe?”
And you look up at him with your little-girl eyes and shake your head because you can’t
The Dream-Makers The clouds are beautiful today.The Dream-Makers in Fantasy More Like This
I watch them from behind someones eyelids as she sleeps beneath a tree with a book in her lap. For a while I imagine the way the trees must feel as the breeze sways them; I have not felt a true breeze in so long. And then I turn back to the depths of the girls mind and carry on with my work. After all, dreams do not create themselves.
I don my black shawl and turn to the little dream form of the girl. Falling into my character, I cluck my tongue and point at the forest that materializes in her subconscious. Beware the monsters that live within the woods, my dear.
But why? Her dream self looks puzzled and calm as only dream people canthey have no real danger to fear.
I shake my head, following whose directions I will never know, and merely say, Beware the monsters, my dear, especially the ones with pretty faces.
TransparencyThis is exactly what it is.Transparency in Free Verse More Like This
The yellow sand has scoured me completely clean,
and I am the clear black of obsidian -
a statue, hands raised.
I mean exactly what I say.
I am the night wind,
blue and cold enough
to sweep a chill over the day.
Spell me exactly the way I sound.
I am a twist on the tongue,
a green sapling digging its roots
into the brown peat.
Speak to me exactly as I am.
I am already boiled and bright and yellow -
a new-stretched canvas.
Breathe, and I breathe with you.
Mermaid SongI have tried to love you.Mermaid Song in Free Verse More Like This
But you have become
little more than an evening in pale watercolors
the shadow of Monet.
I have decided to leave the lilies as they are.
Perhaps in later years, with desperation,
fearing the thinness of my thin limbs,
the creaking of my spider fingers,
I will go to wander those gardens again,
hoping for the promise of Eden,
clutching beads in my weary fist.
For now, you are fleeting as mermaid song,
brief as tall spires in pink and green beneath the sea
I can never touch them.
Our connection fades,
a violet mirage
disappearing within the swells.
A wave breaks
the silver froth wipes the sand
clean and perfectly brown.
Scout's HonorIt was some time during spring. I don't remember the particular day, the exact time.Scout's Honor in Short Stories More Like This
I do remember, however, that Abbi was wearing a sundress- she always wore them during warm weather- and that we were sitting on a cramped swing-glider. I had a camera with me, and she was reading Wuthering Heights. Her white-blue eyes scanned the worn pages, widening as if she had found something that surprised her (which was nearly impossible, as that must have been at least the twentieth time she'd read that book).
She was lying across the glider, her legs draped across mine. I stared up at the sky through my camera, sighing as another fluffy white cloud floated into my field of vision.
"Smile for me." I told Abbi, pointing the camera lens towards her.
She smiled dryly, hiding her face with her book before I could snap the picture.
"C'mon. Show the world all the beauty that you're made of."
She just laughed, and flipped the page. "You flatter me, sir."
"Just one, Abs. If you don't like it I'll delete
Memories"Abbi don't!" I shouted, just before the hose drenched my church outfit. She giggled, and despite being miserable and wet, I smiled.Memories in Short Stories More Like This
Making her laugh always made me smile. Even as a seven year old.
"You're gonna get in trouble with Amma." Almost as if on cue, my grandmother came into the back yard. "Cole Jason Bartholomew!" she shrieked and when I pointed at Abbigale, she sighed. "Abbi Nicole Rose, what have I told you about picking on Cole?" She smiled innocently, her cheeks flushed with pink. "She wasn't picking on me." I pouted, crossing my arms. "Please, she could take you any day, Coley." Amma said lightly, stroking Abbi's hair. I stomped off, away from the sound of their giggles. I smiled as I left though, because making Abbi laugh always made me smile.
"Happy thirteenth birthday, Abbi." I said with a grin, strolling up her driveway. She returned my smile, and jumped into my arms. "Cole! I thought you said you couldn't ma
Southern Hospitality"No mom, I'm fine, really." I insisted, balancing the phone between my cheek and my shoulder as I lifted another cardboard box.Southern Hospitality in Short Stories More Like This
"Nicole, I'm feeling very uneasy about this. I mean, a young girl, alone in a big house out in the country. Why couldn't Dexter be there tonight?"
I sighed, setting the box on the floor by my feet. "He's got one more meeting tomorrow morning, and then he's on the first flight to Georgia. I'm okay for one night, I promise. All I have to do is get my last two boxes in from the car, and I'm in for the night. Okay?"
"Well, okay. But just promise me to lock all the doors, and all the windows. It's a big house. I'd feel better if I knew you were completely safe."
I nodded, immediately feeling stupid when I realized she couldn't see me.
It was a pretty big house.
Dexter had insisted that when we were finally married, we would live in a big house in the country. This was all fine and dandy, minus the fact he was gone four out of seven days on
Take Me For a RideDarling:Take Me For a Ride in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Take me for a ride. Let me sit in your passenger seat, your partner in crime. Give me control of the radio, and let me find something we both can tolerate; or else something we both hate, and can laugh at, blasting it while we go. Let me be your navigator, getting us lost in the middle of nowhere. We can fight and yell and blame each other before we forgive and take it all as the grand adventure it's supposed to be. Let me get up to crazy shenanigans, making faces and distracting you. We'll be causing all sorts of trouble in the name of fun. And when it gets dark, let me sleep in the passenger seat, in my slumber entrusting you with my safety. Let me feed you food while you drive; holding your burger and soda while you keep your hands on the wheel and eyes on the roads ahead.
And when the ride is over dear heart, do to me as others have done. Push the pedal till we're going over a hundred kilometres an hour. Without warning push open that passenger side door, unbuckle my belt,
not all humans go to heavencock itnot all humans go to heaven in Free Verse More Like This
april 23 2008
“bye mom. i love you so much, i swear
i’ll be home soon.”
“please, you’re only eighteen, you have your
whole life ahead of you, please
don’t throw it away.”
“i’m going, mom. i’m going overseas
but i swear i’ll be back before you
miss me. love you!”
most nights he shakes himself awake
with the vision of bombs and fire and bullets
still imprinted on his eyelids.
he doesn’t know what to call them.
the dreams, i mean.
what do you call bad dreams when
you’ve already lived the nightmare?
his therapist says his problem
is he thinks he’s not normal, that he doesn’t fit,
that he’s a special kind of monster.
she tells him that the key is figuring out the ways
that he’s the same.
so when he’s alone, or worried or stressed
or tired or hurt or wishing he were dead,
he traces over his collarbone and says
catch the stars to remember her wishesi.catch the stars to remember her wishes in Free Verse More Like This
she rememberes the little things first.
her favorite color is purple
she likes blueberry pancakes,
and leaves pennies face-up on random street corners.
even with these pieces, it feels like
a huge chunk has been torn away that she could never retrieve
there are scars on her person
she does not remember getting.
her body is a map of memories
she does not know how to read.
they say she used to be calm and collected,
but now she is hot and fiery,
and they don't know her anymore.
but that's okay, because she doesn't know herself.
she misses the sun,
and the bad school coffee and English projects
and her own bed
and the person she was before.
even though she can't remember, she misses.
when they tell her what happened,
car crash. one dead, one survived.
internal bleeding. damage to the brain.
amnesia. amnesia. amnesia.
and she doesn't remember but she flashes between images
like loose strings that she can't help pulling.
a hand to hold. a quick
cinderella died yesterday"burn your tiaras,cinderella died yesterday in Free Verse More Like This
bury your fairy godmother.
it's time for you to grow up now, you're
no peter pan.
forget never never land.
stars are just burning balls of gas that are
slowly running out of time- they can't
hear your wishes.
cast aside your dr. seuss books like you will
later cast aside your bibles.
after all, a fairy tale is a fairytale is a fairytale.
life will teach you that.
grace, you were born into a role
only a very strong girl can play.
see, society will hate you for being
what they don't want to believe.
surrender your throne, your castle is under siege.
stop being fascinated with the sky,
you'll never go there.
keep your feet on the ground, and steady yourself
before you help another.
your brain is more logical than your heart,
therefore take your instructions from it.
promises can be broken as easily as can be made.
do not rely on something as weak as miracles and love-
and if you only have one piece of armor,
defend your back from the people you trust the most.
Xavixavi prances around with nine year old goldXavi in Free Verse More Like This
stars on his shirt and tells other people they're
his friend asked him the question,
"if she and me were dangling over a fire, who would you save?"
he asked us what we wanted to do after school.
his friend said soldier, i said poet.
xavi said he'd save me
because words are more important than guns.
just kidding, he hates me.
but Xavi's the kind of person who
i think would say that.
he's Spanish and an atheist and English and freaky
and crazy and American,
but I'm starting to think Xavi's tired of labels.
i tell him I'm sick of being called
and he says, "I know."
i wish I could ask him if he's sick of being called
xavi is obsessed with soccer
and knows his players like I know my poets.
he can talk car like nobody's business.
he's also a mathematical genius if you ask him,
but sometimes I imagine him huddled up in his one-parent
house, desperately trying to study,
desperately trying to impress.
he disappeared so fast afte
Off-Key DuetYou walk in smelling like herOff-Key Duet in Free Verse More Like This
Your broken pieces falling on the floor
Expecting me to fix you like you were
But I don't think I can do this anymore.
And love, don't you think we're just a little messed up?
With you and your countless heartbreaks
And your flawless
And your "I didn't mean it you're the only one".
With me and my broken, too small to fly wings
And grand delusions of something untrue
And my "I know you don't care, but I love you."
We're just some stupid mistake.
Because monsters exist, but mine won't stay under the bed.
And, worst of all, I've
Love with one.
But my parents proved to me that
Love wasn't permanent, which is why
I'm still breathing and haven't just given up and drowned.
So, every day I'll wait for you to come back
After seeing her again.
I'll wait with my glue and kisses
Waiting to fix you back up
(Even though you smell like cherry blossoms
Which makes my nose twitch and my heart crack)
But I do
and if your heart do hurt theeonce upon a time—and if your heart do hurt thee in Free Verse More Like This
except that’s not true, because this story
is still happening, so let me start over.
there’s a girl who lives in a small town
who is afraid of falling and snakes and thunder and love and
commitment and herself and gas stations.
this is a good premise for a character because
you can already see her problem: she’s going to fall in love.
there’s a boy because there is always a boy.
this boy is in love with music and leaving.
let’s call him Q, and let’s call the girl G and let’s say
that G is in love with Q but she’s not sure if
he’s a person or an ideal, and he might be horrible
as both but she loves him for his smile and his eyes
and she’s young enough to think that that’s enough.
spoiler alert: it’s not enough.
now, let’s give G some flaws because every good character has flaws.
let’s say she laughs a bit too loudly and her eyes are close together
and she has no sens
sometimes i feel like a superherothe house across from my bus stopsometimes i feel like a superhero in Free Verse More Like This
is a temporary funeral home, but back when the Yankees controlled the town,
it was owned by a family whose daughter rode bareback
twenty-seven miles in the middle of the night to warn her
rebel leader of a lover that the Yankees were coming for him,
the Yankees were coming, the Yankees were coming,
the Yankees are coming, John, get out, quick!
and maybe she tripped and fell,
or her red cape got tangled up in her stirrups and ideals,
because by the time she rode into the neighborhood,
the houses were already on fire, children were already
crying for their mothers, and her John
was already hung up on the gate as an example
to the other rebel.
the next morning, the Yankees strung her
dead body up next to his.
no one ever told them life wasn't fair.
maybe that's why when i first tasted lemonade
i spat it out onto the ground,
and didn't drink it again until i was twelve years old,
and feeling biter and sour and in need of a little sugar.
when i was little,
JeffreyJeffrey Williams is homophobic.Jeffrey in Free Verse More Like This
But I cannot hate him for his beliefs, like
He cannot hate me for mine,
Though I know there are some days we both want to.
But there's other reasons to hate the boy-
Hate him because once a long, long time ago
I thought I loved him.
But then we both grew up into
Real-world terms and opinions that were
Never made to fit.
So, some days I think I'm just making up for lost time.
There's this part of me that thinks he deserves
A 'Bad Poem'
Because he called me ugly all through sixth grade,
Insults my friends ("I'd like him, really Grace, I would,
But he's just so... gay.")
And expects himself to be all that's right in this world,
In my world.
See, I want to say that he whistles while he works like
The lost eighth dwarf in Snow White (which, for his height,
Is an accurate description) without mentioning
His sixty-seven community service hours.
Talk about how annoying his laugh is, without
Mentioning how often I hear it.
I cannot write him a 'Bad Poem' b
Worth a Thousand WordsShe painted allWorth a Thousand Words in Philosophical More Like This
of her essays.
you put the 'u' in dysfunctional1. your lips taste like spun sugar and your wristsyou put the 'u' in dysfunctional in Free Verse More Like This
hold him down like razor blades.
he is bending into you, he is breaking because of you,
he is telling you not to stop.
if you were drunk, you would mistake this as love.
2. here is the jaded world, banging on your door at seven a.m.
you’ve been the same person ever since freshman year,
gravitating towards the people who don’t care
whether you break them or take them.
you’re a slut who lost it in high school,
but at least you’re not the prude who didn’t.
1. he sits you down at the kitchen table
and tells you over red wine that some people
are made for bleeding and you take a sip,
and tell him he has the perfect complexion for bruises.
make a list of what you know of love.
fill it with whatever clichés
you’ve thought of when he rolls away from you
in the middle of the night, like an empty confessional
the morning after a one night stand.
end it with a question mark.
ask him to do the same and he
2nd person fiction and YouYou like fiction written in the second person. You may not admit it to yourself, but deep down, you really do. It teases you with its confrontational otherness, its flamboyantly displayed post-modernism, its teeth.2nd person fiction and You in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Do not look at its teeth. You do not want to look at its teeth.
Fiction written in the second person and you have a long history of denial. At first, you were sure it couldn't be done. Then it was done, and it was done to you, and you liked it, too, but it was only the one time and you were kind of drunk. It was an experiment, and it was interesting as an experiment, but that was all it was.
Only, of course, it wasn't.
Fiction written in the second person has invaded your dreams, and what's worse, your sexual fantasies. You'd be picturing a luscious blonde, rubbing her rubbables, yearning for your touch, when suddenly a voice would pop into your head, calmly narrating what you were doing: "You are picturing a luscious blonde," the voice would say, "rubbing her rubbables. Hey